


At Last

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 01:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12159153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: It's Greg's stag night and he's about to discover the benefits of the right atmosphere and the right amount of alcohol on two idiots in denial.





	At Last

AT LAST

 

Summary: It’s Greg’s stag night and he’s about to discover it’s amazing what the right atmosphere and the right amount of alcohol can do for people.

 

Dedicated to the ladies of the DOC. Curious? Come and play redgreyandpurple.tumblr.com

 

Greg Lestrade checked his pockets; keys, phone wallet, all present and correct. He smiled at the man pouring himself a large whisky from the decanter on the sideboard.

 

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Greg asked.

 

“Absolutely.” Mycroft replied firmly. “My parents will be here in just under an hour and you know how much I despise social gatherings. Beer, curry and a possible visit to a strip club is my idea of hell.”

 

“You don’t know it’ll be like that,” said Greg defensively. “John’s organised it. We could be going paintballing for all you know.”

 

Mycroft grinned, his blue eyes twinkling with devilment.

 

“Doctor Watson is a traditionalist. There will be beer. And curry. I promise you.”

 

“Probably,” conceded Greg. “But I don’t think dinner with your parents really counts as a stag night.”

 

“It suits me,” said Mycroft. “Plus, Sherlock will be there to make sure it doesn’t end like your last one.”

 

Greg visibly winced at the memory of coming to bollock naked in Piccadilly Circus tied to a lamp post with his own handcuffs.

 

“No danger of that,” he said.

 

“Go,” said Mycroft. “The taxi will be waiting and they can’t start without you.”

 

Greg put his arms around his fiancé and kissed him. It was a good kiss with just the right amount of tongue and Greg was about to suggest forgetting the whole evening and dragging Mycroft into bed when an impatient car horn sounded in the street outside.

 

“I love you,” said Greg. “And I’ll be careful.”

 

“Have a good time,” said Mycroft with a smile.

 

 

Several beers in several pubs later, Greg suppressed a rueful grin when John ushered him, Sherlock and several other members of Scotland Yard into the Star of Bengal where they were obviously expected. The waiter seated them at a large table set with snowy white linen and pristine glassware.

 

“This is very civilised,” said Greg, spearing a pakora with his fork.

 

“As your best man, it’s my duty to give you a good send-off. On the other hand, I don’t want to think what Mycroft would do to me if I let anything happen to you two days before the wedding,” replied John, sipping at his beer. “What’s he doing tonight?”

 

“My soon-to-be-in-laws are arriving tonight and he’s taking them to dinner,” replied Greg. “I’m marrying a complete party animal. I think they’re going round to Baker Street tomorrow to see Sherlock.”

 

“I bet he can’t wait,” said John softly, eyeing his former flatmate across the table.

 

Greg noticed how John’s expression softened when he looked at Sherlock, a deep yearning present in his dark blue eyes.

 

Greg had drunk just enough to make him ask,

 

“So, you two shagging yet?”

 

John lowered his head and laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

 

“No, we’re not. We’re…taking things one day at a time.”

 

“Fair enough, “said Greg amiably. “But you want to?”

 

“You have no idea,”

 

Greg thought he might have, and from the looks Sherlock was sending John’s way when he wasn’t deep in conversation with Philip Anderson of all people, John wasn’t the only one.

 

Greg sighed. Sherlock had come back from the dead for John but they were no further forward than they had been all those years ago. Worse, now that John had a flat of his own.

 

They needed a catalyst. Greg hatched a plan to get them together at his wedding reception. They were both best men, it wouldn’t be that hard, he thought.

 

After the meal, some of Scotland Yard called it a night blaming early turns and getting back for the babysitter, each one wringing Greg’s hand and wishing him luck.

 

Replete with beer and curry, Greg wondered if he should head home too until John announced they were going clubbing.

 

“Tell me we’re not going to a strip club,” pleaded Greg. Mycroft would piss himself laughing when he found out.

 

“Nope,” said John, tucking his hands in his jacket pockets. “It’s Nostalgia Nite at The Powerhouse. It’ll be a laugh.”

 

“Come on, Greg,” said Sherlock, grasping Greg’s arm and towing him along the pavement.

 

The remnants of the stag party easily found themselves a table in the plush interior of the club. Greg ended up sitting next to Sherlock who removed his Belstaff and smiled his thanks at a burly sergeant who placed a large colourful cocktail in front of him. It was still fairly early so the music wasn’t too loud that they couldn’t hear themselves speak but the tiny dancefloor was packed.

 

“Got your speech sorted?” asked Greg.

 

“Yes. Can’t say I found a great deal of funny stories about Mycroft to put in it. Are you nervous about Saturday?”

 

“Not at all,” replied Greg honestly.

 

“Still, it’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve been married.”

 

“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” growled Greg.

 

“Why on earth are you marrying my brother?” asked Sherlock, genuine curiosity in his eyes. “You already live together. It wasn’t so long ago that you couldn’t have married him even if you wanted to. What’s the point?”

 

“The point, Sherlock,” said Greg through gritted teeth. “Is that I love your brother and I want the whole world to know just how much. It will be my honour to wear his wedding ring and spend the rest of my life with him.”

 

Sherlock’s nose crinkled as it always did when he was baffled.

 

“Sentiment I can understand from you, but I never expected to hear such things from Mycroft. He’s becoming soft. Emotional. I’m not sure I like it.”

 

“Too bad. I do.”

 

“My mother is delighted, of course. After all my brother and I have achieved, the absolute pinnacle of existence is apparently double barrelling your name with someone else’s and settling for a life of domesticity and only having sex with one person for the rest of your life.”

 

“Sounds good to me,” said Greg, annoyed. “I’ll be very happy to just have sex with Mycroft for the rest of my life.”

 

“Please, Greg,” said Sherlock, looking appalled. “I don’t want to be forcibly removed from here for regurgitating chicken Madras all over the furniture.”

 

“Hey, you started it, “said Greg, grinning.

 

Sherlock was saved from replying by Sally Donovan claiming him for a dance.

 

Greg watched, how could he not? Sherlock was incredibly graceful on the dancefloor, he and Donovan made a handsome couple as they strutted their stuff, loads of admiring looks coming their way and Greg didn’t doubt they would want for dance partners after this.

 

Greg didn’t dance. He had two left feet and preferred to watch. The only time he danced these days was with Mycroft, and he smiled at the memory of the first time.

 

_Greg liked to have the radio on when he was busy in the kitchen. He and Mycroft were clearing up after dinner when he heard the opening bars of the tune._

_“Dance with me?” he asked his lover hopefully._

_There in his tiny kitchen the soaring, swooping sound of the piano and the soulful voice of the singer faded into he background as Mycroft stepped into his embrace._

_Slow dancing in the enclosed space, his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, breathing in the woody notes of his cologne and the scent of fresh linen, it dawned on Greg that he had fallen in love, and every time he heard what was now Their Song, he would remember that exact moment._

He smiled at the memory as he slouched off to find the toilets. As he peed, Greg had a brainwave.

 

On his way back to his seat, he interrupted the DJ.

 

 

“See that man in the purple shirt?” he asked, pointing to Sherlock.

 

“I can’t take my eyes off him,” confessed the DJ.

 

“If he gets up to dance with the blond sitting at that table, here’s what I need you to do…”

 

Greg reclaimed his seat only seconds before Sherlock dropped into his, his dark hair damp with sweat and his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He took a huge gulp of what was left of his cocktail and wiped his forehead.

 

The DJ put on Dexy’s Midnight Runners and Greg nudged Sherlock none-too-gently in the ribs.

 

“What?”

 

“Ask John to dance.”

 

“I don’t know…”

 

“Just do it, will you? “

 

“He hates dancing.”

 

“He won’t hate dancing with you, “promised Greg.

 

He watched as what he was saying sank in and Sherlock sat with his mouth open.

 

“You mean…?”

 

I’m not spelling it out for you,” said Greg. “You’re the genius, work it out. And dance with him for Christ’s sake, will you?”

 

Sherlock stood up, walked over to where John was sitting and extended his hand to his best friend. John took it and let Sherlock lead him to the dancefloor.

 

As soon as they got there, the music changed. Etta James began to sing. “At last…”

 

Greg watched as Sherlock and John put their arms around each other, John fitting into Sherlock’s embrace like he had been made to be there. Sherlock smiled down at him, a smile full of loving tenderness and that was all the invitation John needed. One hand caressed Sherlock’s cheek as John kissed him. Sherlock’s eyes closed, savouring the feel of John’s mouth on his. They broke apart briefly and this time it was Sherlock who kissed John. They made a beautiful couple, oblivious to everyone around them as they continued to kiss, a loving, worshipful expression on Sherlock’s face and sheer bliss on John’s. Nothing in the world mattered except for that moment, and Greg would bet his pension that if they weren’t lovers by the wedding, they would be soon after.

 

It was very late when he crawled into bed beside Mycroft, who stirred as Greg put an arm around him and snuggled close.

 

“How did it go?” asked Mycroft sleepily.

 

“Fine. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, replied Greg, smiling in the dark when he pictured Mycroft’s expression.

 

Reminding himself to put off visiting Baker Street with the in-laws as long as possible, Greg closed his eyes.

 

The End.

 

 


End file.
